


Dressed To Kill

by steelrunner



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Bodyguard Romance, Cuban Lance (Voltron), Established Relationship, M/M, Organized Crime, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-13 04:46:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11177340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelrunner/pseuds/steelrunner
Summary: In some cases, words can be more useful than bullets.Inspired by hardlynotnever'slovely artwork.





	Dressed To Kill

**Author's Note:**

> Things I know very little about: mob negotiations, criminal practices, fashion, good wine, and fancy restaurants.

République is fairly humming with people tonight: Sunday evening brings out the more reserved crowds, the parts of society with either old blood or old money, serene in their dark suits and cocktail dresses. Lance himself is wearing Armani from two seasons back, charcoal with sapphire accents at his neck and wrists, earrings to match.

He’s the first to arrive. Keith and Shiro are flanking him as usual, and the hostess leads the three of them to a table in the back room. The wine list has just been offered to them when Shiro discreetly touches Lance’s wrist, and he looks up to see their guest of honor entering the restaurant. Anthony Boldoni: current heir to his Family, attractive in a middling way, with the body of a college sports star slipping off his peak. He’s also accompanied by two bodyguards, though Lance personally thinks that they don’t bring off their fine suits nearly as well as Shiro and Keith.

He watches idly as they make their way through the white sea of tables. The waitress guiding them is prudent, and nips off as soon as the three others have been seated at Lance’s table.

None of them are quite old enough to be insistent on manners the way their elders are, so Lance just sits back as Boldoni takes in Shiro’s broad frame and scarred face - and then looks at Keith, offering a nod of respect. “I have to say, your reputation precedes you, Mr. McClain. I’ve been looking forward to this meeting for a while.”

Then he looks at Lance, eyes sweeping over him in an up-and-down fashion that Lance is all too familiar with. “I wish I’d known it was an occasion to bring a partner along. I know a few girls that might even be able to rival your boy for looks.”

It’s his first mistake.

===

When their waiter returns, the silence is solid as six-inch ice, and Lance orders for the table: two of the better Merlots, a Sauvignon Blanc, since they have Keith’s favorite variety, and asks Boldoni if he’s sure he doesn’t have any personal preferences.

“No,” Boldoni says. The strain of not saying it through gritted teeth is audible in his voice. “That sounds fine.”

The waiter leaves, and Lance surveys the table’s new atmosphere. Shiro is perfectly serene, and Keith - well, he isn’t bristling too badly. The two lieutenants slip each other a few nervous looks, stretching over the next few moments before Boldoni takes the plunge. Brave of him.

“Of course, Mr. McClain, I hope you know I didn’t intend - ”

“Ajuria-McClain,” Lance says. Usually he tries to be more subtle with his corrections, but evidently he’ll be making more of them this evening. “But really, there’s no need to be formal. Leandro is fine.”

“Leandro,” Boldoni says, acknowledging him in an attempt at graciousness. “I apologize for my mistake. I assumed that…”

Lance waits. 

“…that this might be more of a social occasion than direct business.” Better recovery than most, Lance has to admit, but it’s a stretch. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

Lance waves a hand. “Of course. I understand - but let’s not allow it to get in the way of business, right?”

Boldoni choses to let the topic go, and they exchange some comfortingly bland dialogue when the wine comes, about vintages and food and current affairs. Boldoni’s lieutenants are introduced, and promptly forgotten. Shiro will remember even if Lance doesn’t. The talk shifts to work. Raids. Upheavals. And then Boldoni asks the key question, the perfect opening: “How has business been going for you?” The way he says it is poised, too practiced; he wants to see how much Lance is going to lie.

“Not that well, lately,” Lance says, allowing himself a grimace. He takes a slow sip of his wine, then sets it down, turning to his right. “The feds have been poking around, and then there was that thing - Shiro, remind me, who was that guy from a few days ago?”

“Jonas Fisher,” Shiro replies promptly. “An independent fence working out of Overtown.”

“Yeah, that was it.” Lance tucks one of his legs under the other to keep from fidgeting or readjusting his position - too much of a nervous tell, too much of a giveaway. “This man, he’s been running his business here for ten years without ever contacting us, and then he shows up one day completely out of the blue, begging for protection. He said that he was being threatened by some new gang looking to get his allegiance. My father’s not the sort inclined to let that go, of course.” Fisher had also mentioned that two other operations he knew of had already been subverted, but that seems like an ideal tidbit to keep tucked away for later negotiations. 

The ice goes from inches to feet, a deep freeze the way they rarely see this far south. The reflection of it is in Boldoni’s eyes, going more and more brittle by the moment. 

"On top of all the usual turmoil, well...it looks like it could be quite a mess," Lance continues. “So you see, it’s not really an opportune time to be visiting. Especially when we obviously need to clean the rats out of our territory.”

“Ah,” Boldoni finally says. “So, your family is - not interested in working together at the moment.”

“Oh, I think an alliance would be perfectly advantageous in the future,” Lance says. He shrugs. “But not before we have this business taken care of.”

Boldoni sits back in his chair, a conscious distancing while he deliberates. Again, his guards aren’t nearly so subtle: they’re visibly tense, no longer holding themselves in the slightly slouched position that hides the outline of the guns strapped to their sides. Pointless. Lance wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t Shiro and Keith could decimate them both in a heartbeat. He knows that. Boldoni knows it too. They sit there, watching each other while the clinking of glasses and sophisticated laughter fills the silence. Lance has already shown his hand, and now the moment is hanging on whether or not Boldoni will do the same - and Lance can already tell, by the harsh curl of Boldoni’s mouth, that he isn’t. 

When the waiter returns, Lance tells him that unfortunately, half of their party was called away on urgent business - but the rest of them are ready to order.

===

Time to unwind comes later. First is his duty to make a proper report to his parents of how the meeting went, at their estate on the outskirts of the city; his father finds it highly amusing, and his mother very not so, for roughly the same reasons. They talk together in the house’s dining room, over espresso, for an hour or so: laying plans, deciding which men to send where, to take care of what business. In the background Lance can hear little Naomi and Leon squealing with laughter from the hallway, demanding piggyback rides from Shiro and Keith alike.

It takes almost as long again to pull himself away from his siblings, when his parents release him with new instructions. The three of them don’t head back into the city until near midnight, and the first thing Lance does when he’s back at his loft - their loft - is shower. 

It would take a lot more than this evening to make him feel humiliated. It’s hardly the first time Lance has been underestimated, or even assumed to be the night’s entertainment; to be honest, he had enjoyed that moment of panic when Boldoni realized who he was for the first time. He hums a little in pleasure, kneading vanilla-scented sugar scrub into his skin. ‘Your reputation precedes you’, indeed. Obviously Boldoni had been paying more attention to the rumors about assassinations and sniper shots.

Afterwards, Lance wraps himself in his favorite red silk robe, leaving a trail of faint wet footprints across the hardwood floor as he heads for the balcony. Shiro’s rattling around in the kitchen as the late-night news plays in the background, and Keith seems to have vanished into the bedroom. 

The flat heat of the summer air smacks into him as soon as he steps through the sliding glass door. The horizon tilts away under the weight of a midnight blue sky, streaked with orange haze from the blinding lights of the city, and from father off the wind carries the scent of the sea, gone into the darkness on the horizon. A few blinks make the spots behind his eyelids fade, and Lance reaches into his pocket for the pack of cigarettes and holder he keeps there, going through the familiar ritual of fixing and lighting it while the traffic below howls. 

The first drag Lance takes is an instant relief. He doesn’t bother to keep the robe from slipping off his shoulders as he leans against the railing. The taste of nicotine, the bright lights, and the rush of city and wind make for a comfortable sort of overstimulation, and some sudden feeling swells in Lance’s chest. A burgeoning, foolish feeling of pride and protectiveness: this is his city, and no presumptuous bastard is going to take that away from him.

The door squeaks, and Lance glances over his shoulder to see Keith stepping out onto the balcony. He's changed back into his preferred clothing, plain jeans and a T-shirt. No gloves, thank the Lord.

Keith leaves the door open behind him. He comes over to lean back against the railing alongside Lance, propping up his elbows. “You still thinking about the meeting?”

“Yeah,” Lance says. “Thanks for not stabbing anyone on impulse this time, by the way. Nice change.”

The eye roll he gets is equal parts frustration and grudging acknowledgement. “I can’t believe the nerve of that guy,” Keith mutters. “He really thought we wouldn’t notice them trying to move in, after watching them do it to half a dozen other cities. Seriously.”

“Stupid is as stupid does,” Lance says. He takes another long drag, blowing the smoke over the edge of the balcony. “If we’re lucky, he’ll figure it out and withdraw before we have to kick the shit out of him too.”

“Do you want to be lucky?”

“Maybe.” Lance grins, drawing out the word as he speaks. Then he reaches out to touch the edge of Keith’s jaw, and lets the robe slip a little farther down his shoulders. “You know what I really want?”

Keith raises an eyebrow.

“For you to cut this godawful mop.” Lance tugs sharply on a hank of Keith’s hair. “How can you have two boyfriends with so much style and taste and still walk around like an 80’s reject? I could swear you’re not cutting it on purpose.”

“Well, since you seem to get so much enjoyment out of it…”

Lance pulls even harder. Keith doesn’t even smirk - he just smiles, and leans over to kiss the smoke from Lance’s lips. 

There’s the faint rapping of knuckles on glass, and the two of them turn to see Shiro standing in the doorway. The corner of his mouth quirks upward, his broad frame backlit by the warm gold light from inside the loft. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Not unless you want to be,” Lance says. “What’s up?”

“Thinking I’d put in a take-out order at the Japanese place down the block,” Shiro says. He holds up his phone. "Pad Thai and a sashimi platter. That fancy restaurant food never really fills you up."

Keith perks up with interest, and looks to Lance. “You want something?”

Lance takes another drag, deep and burning, then stubs out his cigarette on the flat of the railing. “Yeah, why not,” he says, and follows them inside to quiet and cool air.

It’s too sweet to waste, this moment and its meaning, and Lance lets his fury rest - saving it for another day.


End file.
